


Tap-Dancing Elephants

by WalkingDictionary (Scared_Beings_in_the_Dark)



Category: White Collar
Genre: Abuse of Power, Episode: s05e04 Controlling Interest, Gen, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Past Rape/Non-con, Rape Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-10
Updated: 2018-11-10
Packaged: 2019-08-21 16:28:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16580027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scared_Beings_in_the_Dark/pseuds/WalkingDictionary
Summary: After the incident in Dr. Summers office, Neal discovers that his shirt is buttoned wrong. It opens a new investigation that Neal doesn’t think he can cope with.





	Tap-Dancing Elephants

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for Season 5, especially Controlling Interest
> 
> Dialogue borrowed heavily from the episode, and in some cases recreated word for word.

~ * ~

It isn’t until he’s already at the hospital, and his jacket is hanging over Jones’s arm that Neal notices his shirt is buttoned wrong.

He stares at the small gap of white of his undershirt.

It feels as big as an elephant tap-dancing on his chest.

Peter doesn’t look up, not even when Ramirez and Elliot another agent-C.I. team swing by to say hello.

Elliott’s on crutches—the result of diving off a moving vehicle to avoid his cover being blown. Ramirez, amendable as ever, swaps injury lists with Jones and Peter.

It’s so normal, and yet Neal can feel his world crashing down around his ears.

He must make some noise, because Peter snaps his head up and his heavy gaze finds Neal.

Neal tries to wave at him, but his hand is numb, flopping around at the end of his wrist.

Immediately, Peter excuses himself, coming back into the room and touching Neal’s arm. Neal can’t help the slight recoil he has at it.

“What’s wrong?” Peter asks, and it sounds like he’s talking through wet cardboard for all Neal can hear him.

Instead, he drops his eyes to the wrongly buttoned part of his shirt. Peter’s hand hovers over it, and Neal winces, hoping he won’t touch him again. Peter doesn’t, but what he does next is just as bad.

He calls in a nurse and a doctor and has Jones lead Ramirez and Elliot away.

Neal’s hearing goes completely out when Peter whispers the words “rape kit” and “assaulted.”

A soft touch to his arm brings him back, and Neal startles the nursing assistant when he jerks under her hand.

“You’re okay,” she says.

Peter nudges her aside. “Neal, do you remember what happened?”

“No,” Neal whispers. “I can’t remember anything after Summers drugged me.”

“Okay, what we’re going to do is get you examined.”

Somehow Neal doesn’t think he can say no.

Peter crusades with Jones helping to lead the medical charge. Neal’s blood is drawn, six small vials that might as well be his whole body’s worth for how cold it leaves him.

Afterward, Neal sits in the waiting room, gauze pressed to the crook of his arm, ignoring the gabbing agents trading stories of C.I.s a few feet from his chair. This time it’s Cruz and her charge, and Cruz is the one sporting a wrapped wrist and a bandaged head.

Peter sits next to him, magazine folded over his lap, face set in his mask of concentration, and still Neal squashes the small voice piping up. Peter doesn’t need to worry about him, about the cold dread twisting in his gut.

“We can probably go,” Peter remarks after a few tense moments of silence. “The hospital can contact us about the tox screen, but the blood results won’t be back in for at least a week.”

Neal has to clear his throat twice before he can speak. “What about the kit?”

Peter picks up the magazine and sets it back on the table next to him. “There was evidence of vaginal fluid,” he says lowly. “It’s being tested for DNA, but that won’t be back for at least a month.”

“She did,” Neal starts, stops when a lump in his throat threatens to choke him. Peter nods anyway.

“I’m sorry,” he offers.

“What happens now?” Neal asks. “What happens to Griffith?”

“We keep investigating,” Peter says. “We need to finish processing you for evidence before we can charge Summers with any crime. In the meantime, we’ll keep working on clearing Griffith’s name.” He pauses, studying Neal with a critical eye. “Well, not you,” he finally amends. “You’re too close to the case. Besides, I don’t want Summers anywhere near you.”

“Trust me, I don’t want her anywhere near me either.”

“I don’t want to do this to you, but if you’re dating anyone, sleeping with anyone, you need to get them to submit a DNA sample to rule them out.”

“You think they won’t believe that she…me?”

Peter sighs. “I don’t know what I think right now. Just, please, don’t make this any more difficult than it has to be.”

Neal looks down at his lap. “There’s no one right now. I’m trying being celibate.”

“Really?” Peter seems surprised, and Neal shrugs at him.

“It hasn’t really been working out to be in a relationship right now.”

“There’s no one else?”

“Is that so hard to believe?”

“Actually yes,” Peter says. “Neal, I’m so used to you charming your way through life that I can’t imagine you don’t have someone ready to share your bed, your life.”

Neal shrugs. “There’s no one, Peter. I’m trying to turn over a new leaf.”

Summers’ words flash through his mind, and Neal wonders if she did what she did because she doesn’t believe he truly has changed.

“Well, if you say there’s no one, then there’s no one.” Peter sighs. “Do you want to go home or do you want to come back to the office?”

“I get a choice?” Peter nods. Neal thinks about it. If he goes back to the office, there’s a chance that the other agents will have heard about what Summers did to him. But, Neal doesn’t relish the idea of sitting at home with his thoughts, trying to remember what happened. “The office, please,” he says softly. Peter looks surprised but nods again.

“You can stay in my office if you like,” he offers.

“Thank you.”

~ * ~

After a few unproductive hours, Peter drops Neal at home, promises to check on him before they go to work tomorrow, and drives off with a wave.

Neal sighs, tired to his bones, and hauls his body up the stairs to his apartment.

Mozzie looks up from his contraption with the Mosconi pages, and Neal nods as he heads to the stove for the teapot. His whole body aches but he doesn’t know why.

Chamomile should hit the spot.

Mozzie watches him with a keen eye, and Neal shudders under the examination.

“You okay there?”

“Fine.” Neal opens the fridge for milk and slams it shut, wrinkling his nose in distaste at the stench wafting out. “What have you done to my fridge?” he demands. It’s one more thing on a bad day, and he feels his resolve quickly crumbling.

“I made _hongeo_ ,” Mozzie says. “It’s a delicacy.”

“Maybe to those of us who don’t have noses.” Neal holds his breath while he pulls out the carton of milk. He takes his mug and the carton to the window, making sure the product inside doesn’t smell like the rotting fish in his fridge before he adds a generous dollop.

He gives the carton to Mozzie to put away, ignoring his protest of “I’m lactose intolerant.”

Mozzie puts the carton away, inhaling appreciatively while Neal covers his nose. Neal glares at him when he sits down again.

“What?”

“You’re banned from cooking,” Neal tells him.

Mozzie scoffs. “Good Night Cinderella,” he says apropos of nothing. To Neal’s confused face, he adds, “It’s a drug. A mix of GHB, ketamine, and flunitrazepam. The working girls in Rio use it on their johns and then they do anything they want.”

“And you think that’s what Summers gave me?”

“Well, she does have connections to the criminal underground.”

“Her patients?” Neal asks, and Mozzie nods. “Why would any of her patients give her that much control over them?”

“You said she wasn’t cheap for your session.” Mozzie shrugs. “Maybe one of her patients paid their debt by giving her a recipe for Good Night Cinderella.” A light bulb goes on over Mozzie’s head. “Have you ever heard of RMT?” he asks.

“Do I want to?”

“RMT stands for recovered memory therapy. A lot of times I drink a bit too much wine and I forget things. In order to remember those things, I drink more wine.”

“And that helps?” Neal sips at his tea, studying Mozzie. “I highly doubt it really does much for you.”

“Do you want my help or not?”

Neal pauses, his mug halfway to his lips again. What kind of question is that? Of course Neal wants Mozzie’s help. But a better question is: does Neal want to know what really happened at his session?

Does he want to remember what Summers did to him after she drugged him? The answer is yes. He’s spent all afternoon racking his brain to see if some memory did slip through, but he’s come up short every time.

“Can you get it on the street?” Neal can give Mozzie money to buy some. He has enough left over to do that.

Mozzie shakes his head, entirely too gleeful when he declares, “I’d have to make it for you!”

Neal sits down, sets his mug down, and fixes Mozzie with a blank stare. “Do it,” he says, woodenly. Then, he grabs his mug and stalks off to his bed.

Mozzie calls for him a couple of hours later, and Neal rouses slowly. He hadn’t been sleeping, mind still spinning, trying to recall just what Summers had said to him, but he’d been deep enough in a doze that it’s still jarring to haul himself up and back to the table.

He sits down, frowning at his hands so that he doesn’t have to see the happy, relaxed expression on Mozzie’s face. It’s not his fault that he gets giddy from helping.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Mozzie asks.

Neal nods, finally looking up. Mozzie is worried, his brow creased in concern. He pushes a glass across the table. Neal pulls it closer, examining the contents. It looks like water.

So did Summers’ bottle.

“I need to know what I told her, how much of Peter’s case I gave away.” He glances toward the pages set aside for tonight. “How much of us I gave away.”

Mozzie nods in understanding, picking up his wine glass. “Well, I will be right here to guide you.”

Neal sniffs the contents of his glass. It has that same chemical smell that Summers’ bottle had tasted of. “Are you sure this is the same concoction that Summers used?”

“More or less.” Mozzie sips at his wine. “I made a few modifications. Added a stimulant.” He shrugs at Neal’s raised brow. “The longer we can keep you in that altered state, the better you’ll be able to recall. And thanks to my added potassium stimulant, you’ll be more in control of your faculties.”

“As long as I wake up,” Neal says and knocks it back. At first he thinks nothing’s happening because he’s still sitting across from Mozzie, watching as he drinks his wine and pours another glass.

He doesn’t feel the same sick twist in the pit of his stomach, but Mozzie’s voice, rattling on about vintages he hasn’t tried yet, does start to echo a bit. Neal raises his hand, and Mozzie stops talking.

“It’s kicking in?” he asks, setting aside his glass.

Neal nods. He leans back in the chair, gripping the arms tightly.

Already, he can hear Summers’ voice whispering by his ear, but he can’t make out what she’s saying.

“Remember the office,” Mozzie instructs from far away. “The shapes, the textures. Even the view. Dr. Summers is sitting across from you. She’s waiting for you to lose your inhibitions. What is she saying?”

Neal focuses his hearing.

_“What can the FBI prove?”_

“She wanted to know what the FBI knew and if they could prove anything.”

“Did you ask her any questions?”

Neal nods.

_“You stole the two million. Why?”_

_“Because it was there.”_

“Did she ask any more questions? Did she lead you?”

 “No,” Neal thinks he’s shaking his head, but he can’t be sure, “no, she-she wanted to…” He can’t finish that sentence because in his memory, he can see Summers looming over him, one hand on his chest, the other dipping lower, cupping him. He whimpers in the back of his throat, shifting away from her fingers.

“Did you ask her any other questions?” Mozzie’s voice floats in, barely there, and Neal grabs hold of it, trying to use it to pull himself back from Summers.

_“Why are you doing this?” Neal breathes._

_Summers smiles, leaning closer, lips brushing his ear when she whispers, “Because I can.”_

Neal jerks back, tipping the chair over. He goes sprawling, scrambling, trying to get away from something that his mind thinks is happening again.

Mozzie drops next to him, patting him on the shoulder. Neal recoils.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Mozzie says softly.

“No, it’s not,” Neal says. He can’t breathe and his chest hurts. He can still feel Summers’ fingers curling around him, stroking him so that she could use him. “She knows that the FBI’s going after Griffiths.” He chokes on a sob. “Why’d she do that, Moz?”

“I don’t know,” Mozzie says honestly. “The suit won’t let her get away with it.”

“The suit, Peter,” Neal says, “I have to tell Peter what I remembered.” He stands up, swaying on his feet.

Mozzie grabs his arm. “No, you don’t,” he said. “What you need is to rest. Come on, Neal. Just sit.”

Neal lets himself be settled, and Mozzie sinks down across the table from him. “Neal, breathe. Whatever you saw, it’s already happened. It can’t happen again.”

“That doesn’t make me feel better.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“I really need to tell Peter about what I remember.”

Mozzie sighs. “Let me get my jacket,” he says. “I’ll take you.”

~ * ~

The Burkes look like they were having a relaxing evening before Neal and Mozzie burst in. Neal sits on the couch, Mozzie a line of solid heat beside him.

Elizabeth offers something to eat for the third time. Mozzie accepts some wine while Neal hugs a pillow to his chest, hoping it will help with the hollow feeling swirling in his gut.

Peter sighs heavily, rubbing at his eyes. “Tell me again why you thought it would be a good idea to drug him?” He glares at Mozzie.

Mozzie isn’t perturbed by it, sipping nonchalantly at his wine. “We needed a way to recover Neal’s memories.”

“And you did it by giving him the same damn solution Summers did? How on earth did you think that was acceptable? And you,” he points at Neal, “why did you let him?”

Neal rolls his shoulders, hunching forward. “I wanted to remember,” he says softly. He meets Elizabeth’s eyes. “I needed to.”

Surprisingly, it’s Peter who nods. He turns to face Neal more fully, hands clasped in front of him, like he’s trying to stop himself from reaching out to touch Neal.

“Okay, so, go back to where you left off. What’s happening?”

Neal closes his eyes, swallowing at the growing sensation of Summers cupping him, stroking him.

“Sh-she asked about the FBI, what we knew. She knows there’s nothing there.”

“Did she ask about Griffiths?”

Neal tries to remember but all he can feel is Summers hand guiding him, his—him penetrating her as she bites his ear and uses him to bring herself to climax.

He fell out of the chair at that point, he’s almost positive. When she’d shoved the smelling salts in his face, he’d been on the floor, one hand under his body, the other over his eyes as he’d cried.

She’d spun some honey lies, and he hadn’t believed her. Now he was here, half on the Burkes’ couch, half in Summers’ office. Stuck inside his head.

“You’ve got two minutes,” Mozzie says from very far away. “Then he’s going to sleep.”

“Neal, concentrate,” Peter barks. Neal grabs with both hands and comes up empty.

He shakes his head, thinks he does anyway, to apologize, and then slumps sideways, cheeks wet as he passes out.

~ * ~

Neal wakes up still on the Burkes’ couch with Mozzie in Peter’s chair, watching him with a neutral expression. Mozzie is good at hiding his fear, Neal thinks, but not his other emotions. He’s afraid.

“What’s wrong?” Neal tries to ask and ends up coughing because of his dry throat. Elizabeth materializes by his elbow and offers him a glass of water.

“Just water?” Neal confirms, and Mozzie nods.

He drinks it.

Elizabeth sits next to him. “Peter’s going to arrest Dr. Summers,” she announces to her knees. She takes the glass from Neal’s lax fingers before he can drop it. “He thinks they have enough on her to get her to at least confess to abusing her patients.” She glances at Neal before adding, quietly, “Like she did you.”

Neal throws up.

Because he’s only had the water and the Goodnight Cinderella last night, it isn’t much of anything. Just water. But it still stings his throat and makes his eyes water. He doesn’t want to think about Summers doing what she did to him to others.

In a way, though, he supposes he should be glad. If she hadn’t raped him, then they would never have gotten her.

It does not make him feel better.

~ * ~

Peter doesn’t actually arrest Summers. He has another division do that for him.

“Too close,” he says, like it’s an apology. Neal ignores him in favor of pretending to study one of the fraud cases.

“We got her accomplices too,” Peter adds when the silence stretches on. Neal pointedly flips a page. “We talked to Griffiths too.”

Neal looks up at the drop in Peter’s register. He narrows his eyes at him, and Peter shakes his head sadly.

“She raped him too.”

Neal closes the file. “Don’t say it,” he warns.

Peter heaves a sigh and nods. “He doesn’t remember as much as you did, but there’s evidence. Neal, I’m sorry you had to go through that.”

“Someone had to stop her.” Neal drops the file on Peter’s desk and walks out of his office.

“Oh, and Neal,” Peter calls.

Neal pauses by his desk, hand on his coat, the other reaching for his fedora.

“We didn’t find the money. Do you know how that happened?”

Neal shakes his head, puts on his coat and hat, and punches the button for the elevator.

Peter lets him go.

~ * ~

Neal enters his apartment to find Mozzie sitting at the table, working on the Mosconi pages. He almost turns around and leaves again, but Mozzie waves him over.

“How was Peter?” Mozzie asks, wriggling in his chair, delighted over something.

Bluntly, Neal asks, “Did you steal the two million from Summers?”

He doesn’t really care. He’s not going to ask for any of it. Mozzie needs it to get back on his feet again. Two million can buy a new identity and some new contacts that won’t be suspicious because Teddy Winters was made.

“Of course,” Mozzie says. “It was brilliant! Shall I tell you about it?”

“No.” Neal knows he’s being rude, difficult, ugly, but right now, he wants his apartment back. He knows Peter’s going to confront him again about the money. Wasn’t it enough that Summer raped him, got inside his head, and used him like a plaything?

He doesn’t need Peter pushing him, and he doesn’t need a witness when he breaks again.

Gentler, he says, “I need to be alone right now. Do you have somewhere you can go?”

Mozzie nods knowingly, gathering the pages into a satchel. He tops off his glass, shoving the bottle back among the empties, likely all drunk this evening before Neal returned from the office. “June has been itching to resume our Parcheesi tournaments.”

In reality, Mozzie’s probably going to find a quiet storage unit and keep working on the papers.

Neal doesn’t really care right now. “Thank you,” he says to Mozzie’s back, aware at least that he owes Mozzie that much.

As soon as he’s alone, Neal strips down and takes as hot of a shower as he can, scrubbing his skin raw before digging out his softest pajamas, a gift from Elizabeth shortly after his first Christmas working for the FBI. He curls up under all the blankets he can find, the chill in his bones spreading out until he shakes with it.

He closes his eyes and tries not to see Summers leaning over him, tries not to feel her hands on him, tries not to hear her voice telling him she can do whatever she wants.

He fails.

 

~ End ~


End file.
